


blasphemer

by Aredhel_Alcarin



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: 5 + 1, A study of different kinds of love I guess, Obi-Wan Kenobi-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:55:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25867039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aredhel_Alcarin/pseuds/Aredhel_Alcarin
Summary: Five times Obi-Wan has loved, and one time he was hated.
Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Darth Maul, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Luke Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Satine Kryze, Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	blasphemer

1\. storge

A Jedi is born inside the Temple. Not the person itself, of course, that comes from however your species reproduce anywhere in space; but the ensemble of teaching and moral lessons that will ultimately be called _Jedi_.

It all comes down to the fact that the Force has honoured you with certain abilities and, thus, you must honour it back. You must be grateful but disengaged, humble but great, just but impartial. You must, above all, be balanced: that’s the most important aphorism, and the one that stuck the most with little Obi-Wan’s brain during master Yoda’s lessons. Fear leads to anger and anger leads to hate, yes; but also joy leads to pleasure, and pleasure leads to chaos. It’s not enough to resist temptation, you must avoid it completely. Don’t desire, don’t yearn. Don’t form attachments (that’s the magic word). Don’t control your emotions: banish them. Search for order.

Contrary to what most people would believe it was easier at first, when Obi-Wan was a child. Growing up in an environment where everything is shared erases any possessive pronouns from your vocabulary and then it’s not your clothes, but _the_ clothes; not your room, but _the_ room. Every youngling shares the food, the classrooms, even master Yoda. You have friends, but they’re also everybody else’s friend. There’s no concept of ownership, which avoids both pride and misuse.

Then, you build your first lightsabre.

And it’s yours but also it’s not, the same way your arm is yours but it would be absurd to claim it for yourself. You don’t owe it, it’s simply an extension of your body. It’s not yours, it’s you.

So it’s easy. You live a simple life. And sure, there are some misunderstandings and small quarrels and even an occasional fight; but you’re satisfied. You don’t need anything else because you know where your centre is. You become padawan (you have, after all, just the right amount of ambition), and they assign you to a Master. A Master that’s yours, truly yours this time; and it’s then when certain gears become jerky.

Master Qui-Gon was a respected and wise individual, very powerful Jedi, and Obi-Wan was happy to be able to learn directly from him. He had a reputation of being a bit unorthodox, but that was okay. It felt nice to be finally working in the field, to know there was someone better than him watching his back, polishing his movements and reasoning. The apprenticeship was both a prize and a responsibility, the recognition of his skills but also the commitment to follow through, and knowing that made Obi-Wan feel very mature. He wanted to make the most of it.

Surprisingly, it was also a very eye-opening experience. Obi-Wan, like the rest of the padawans, knew most of the Council in person; but always in an aseptic, distanced way. Great and wise figures whose presence was closer to a mythological hero than a real, living creature; that were both all-knowing and all-mighty, and almost unkillable (they were times of peace, after all). But having one of them as his Master, Obi-Wan realized they sometimes hesitated. They sometimes wondered. Master Qui-Gon needed to rest, to eat, to practice any technique that was new to him and he even made mistakes; so surely the rest of the Council wasn’t any different. It was a sobering idea, but it also revealed an incredibly important truth: Master Qui-Gon may need Obi-Wan’s help.

To be needed, what a comforting thought! But not needed as a Jedi, that vague and abstract sensation of being the guardian of all life in the galaxy, no; needed as himself, as Obi-Wan, by a specific person who happened to be someone he very much admired. So Obi-Wan tried, as best as he could, to make him proud (for sure feeling proud of a sentient being other than yourself was acceptable to the Council). Pride, as one of the most dangerous emotions you could feel, was tricky.

Obi-Wan never knew if wanting that recognition made him closer to the Dark Side or not, but he never asked. Just in case.

Having a Master was− exhilarating. As a youngling Obi-Wan had studied the concept of family, of how different cultures were based on different hierarchies depending on blood relation and legal or ritual unions, but always as a foreign idea. Sure, Obi-Wan knew he had a mother (or, rather, had had one) the same way he knew the fruit comes from the tree; but there’s no bond there other than the ubiquitous presence of the Force. He understood the idea of siblings, of son and daughter, because even inside the Temple he still lived in Coruscant; and society was always moving, even if Jedi were frozen in time.

Still, the concept of parenthood was a bit strange to him once you remove the biological part, even if he knew there were mothers and fathers with no blood relation with their children. Not only that, they could also be different species! They taught their children, they fed them and clothed them and kept them safe; so were they like the Temple’s Knights and Masters? Was Master Qui-Gon his father? Master Yoda’s lessons said he wasn’t, but Obi-Wan didn’t understand the difference.

At an age where you measure time by how much you lift your head to look at your Master every little thing they say or do affects you to the core, for better or worse. Master Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan fought sometimes, but even that was fine: his Master was still _his_. And yet, the thing is that such a gravitational energy displaces your centre, and you’re not as balanced as before.

You start wanting more.

What, exactly, Obi-Wan didn’t know. No one else seemed to be missing something, no one else seemed to think their relationship with their Master was lacking in any way; so maybe it was him. It wasn’t really that what he had wasn’t enough, or that he was dissatisfied, but…

He remembers one time, strolling through the residential streets of Coruscant (he doesn’t remember well, he may have been alone at the moment); when he saw a little girl called for his father to show him what she had painted on the floor with some chalk. The man had acted extremely pleased, lifting her and giving her a big hug; and for some reason that image had stuck in Obi-Wan’s mind for weeks. As if that was the first hug he had ever seen!

Hugs are weird, anyway. Younglings are taught they are a form of greeting in certain places (like kisses, or handshakes), and it’s not _that_ uncommon to see a Jedi performing one; but it’s always out of politeness. Camaraderie, even, if you’ve known the person for a long time. Because caring is fine, caring is actually essential for a Jedi, but just a general feeling, broad and controlled; not focused on a single person. Genuine hugs are a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing, never rehearsed, and Obi-Wan hadn’t really seen that inside the Temple. Bursts of emotion are generally considered dangerous, in any form; but it’s not that hugs are not allowed, they just feel− excessive.

Gentle words of affirmation were okay, then. Obi-Wan knew his Master was proud of him, so it didn’t really matter how he showed it. Of course he liked when that appreciation was externalised, but no, not with a hug, that would be too much. 

For instance, there was this particularly complex _ataru_ manoeuvre Obi-Wan had been practising for weeks, repeating it over and over even when alone until he was able to do it just by muscle memory. Obi-Wan specialised in _soresu_ but had wanted to show Master Qui-Gon he could learn some movements from his preferred combat style, too, to honour him; and had planned it as a surprise. That itself was a bit out of the box, but Obi-Wan was a good enough padawan to get away with it. When, in the middle of a mission, he had finally got the chance to show it off; he waited a couple of seconds to let the whole scene sink in (and to catch his breath) before turning to his Master.

Master Qui-Gon looked down at him, since Obi-Wan still had a bit to grow before being something close to eye-level, surprise rising in his face. He smiled, proud and satisfied, and gave him a couple of pats on the shoulder; his hand lingering just the tiniest bit before deciding, _who cares_ , and softly ruffling his short hair.

“Good job.”

Obi-Wan could have cried, right there, and he wondered if the Council would approve. He looked up, his chest filled with something heavy and warm; something old and fulfilling and unexplored, something obscure. Something much bigger than him.

But not attachment, not love.

Maybe respect.

2\. eros

Obi-Wan was still in his late teens when he and Master Qui-Gon were assigned to Mandalore, so that may explain it.

Those transitioning years just before your adult life are a complex and unstable milestone for any species, the moment when everything you have learned begins to settle to shape your personality and your body accomplishes its conclusive form; but clearly a Jedi should be above that. Meditation and guidance through the Force should allow you to clear your mind and balance your soul, letting your feelings dissolve into the stream: your trained muscles are now fully developed, your brain is sharpened and analytical, your conscience knows its place in the Cosmos.

As a servant of the Force, though, you must also be aware of politics. A Jedi’s least spiritual studies and not necessarily Obi-Wan’s favourite, not being a fan of the Senate himself; but vital when trying to maintain peace in the galaxy.

So when they arrived at Sundari, Obi-Wan already knew everything about the new government’s pacifist policy and the clash with the traditionalists. About the young Duchess trying to implant controversial laws, about the threats and attacks from the Mandalorians that missed the old times, about the anxiety in the streets and the people worrying about the future of their planet; and the consequent civil war. He had seen holos of the Duchess, both public newsreels of her giving speeches in front of the city hall and classified security cameras footage of her running away from armoured attackers. For Obi-Wan she was more an exam question than a real person, and as his future bodyguard that was probably the best relationship he could aspire to.

She was very polite when they met, very polished yet a bit stern, and Obi-Wan was thankful for that. How easy was his job when people knew how to behave! Master Qui-Gon had complimented her political project and had assured her they would protect her and her people, and had hoped they would only have to be there for a few weeks before the whole situation was fixed. He had been wrong, then, although it had possibly been wishful thinking rather than genuine expectation.

They spent a year in the system.

Such a long mission required an adjustment of Obi-Wan’s daily routines, like his lightsabre practise and meditation retreats; but he couldn’t always fulfil them as well as he wanted.

It wasn’t easy to keep focus when, after making a mistake in one of the lightsabre sequences and ending up on the floor, he heard a flowery laugh coming from one of the corridors. Quickly getting up, embarrassment colouring his cheeks, he inhaled slowly before clearing his mind and repeating it again; perfectly this time.

The intricate silhouette of the Duchess’s ceremonial robes was outlined against the sunlight, getting closer to let herself be seen, her hands clapping softly.

“Impressive.”

That’s all she said, and yet Obi-Wan couldn’t help a cocky smirk. It didn’t really matter that she would be undoubtedly more impressed by Master Qui-Gon’s technique, because that small moment of praise had been only for him.

Looking for possible spectators became Obi-Wan’s first instinct when practising, coming from a slight anxiety of making a fool of himself again to deciding it was actually a good motivation to do (and look) better. He was already present on every step of the Duchess’s journey −that’s why he and Master Qui-Gon had been summoned, after all−, so it was fair to allow her into a more private aspect of his life.

She smelled good, he realised. Something like lavender, sweet and woody, that would stay with Obi-Wan for hours after he had wished her good night. She was effortlessly calm and gracious but pointedly smart and witty, used to deal with politicians and, especially taking into account Mandalore’s history, the military. She disapproved of some Jedi methods, considering them too violent and counterproductive; and some tactical meetings would end up becoming moral and ethical debates interrupted only by curfew, forcing them both to go to sleep still thinking about the other (what they dreamt about, they never talked). But there was never poison in those discussions, never an answer to reach. It felt more like a game.

Obi-Wan liked having her eyes focused on him. He knew how to stage himself to appear enigmatic and intriguing, how to rely on the Force to create the perfect atmosphere. He would sometimes touch her hair, her hand, her thigh; and he caught her once staring clearly at his lips. A small victory, he thought, even if there couldn’t be a winner: then the game would end, and it would have stopped being fun.

She probably was a better player, though. Subtler. Satine would let her hair down to go see him outside formal hours, blonde locks framing her face; and would brush his ear with her nose when whispering, arguing it was too late to be making noise. All proper, all teasing. Her flowy nightgowns were sheer enough to create an illusion, brief glimpses of flesh here and there, or sometimes a lonely petal falling from her daytime headpiece. She had a secret smile, far from her public one (more contained, more manufactured), that made her eyes squint and shine, and only Obi-Wan knew about that. She had a beautiful laugh.

Master Qui-Gon knew something was up when Obi-Wan started calling her Satine.

He wasn’t overly judgemental, maybe because he couldn’t be sure just how much was happening, but he did bring it up. Obi-Wan then assured him that he simply enjoyed her company and there was nothing wrong with being friendly, that being close to her was actually good for the success of the mission; and Master Qui-Gon sighed. “There’s a strength and nobility in restraint, Obi-Wan”, he said, and then left; leaving Obi-Wan equally confused and determined.

The thing was that hiding from the traditionalists while waiting for the perfect opportunity to launch an offensive to their base was very boring; and there was nothing to do without breaking their cover other than, well, play their little game. Satine was the only civilian his age that he was close to, not only on Mandalore but probably in his whole life, and that was hard to ignore.

It’s important to say that it never put the mission on jeopardy. Important to Obi-Wan, at least, to know that having a little fun wasn’t affecting his job; so he could keep doing it. They became careful, _aware_ , even if it was a well-known secret. They never got overly physical.

(But he knew how she tasted.)

Lonely hands under the table, fingertips mapping lace, beaten-up knuckles being kissed. But when a year had passed and the conflict was solved, Obi-Wan left Mandalore to go back to the Temple in Coruscant with Master Qui-Gon. That had always been the plan so it shouldn’t have been difficult, never a trace of doubt for his Jedi life in that entire time; and yet it was. It was difficult. It was sad and frustrating and it made him feel guilty, guilty for not staying but also resentful that she hadn’t asked him to stay; and no one had taught him how to deal with that. Time passes differently when you’re young and a year is both never-ending and, suddenly, not enough.

Obi-Wan could sense Master Qui-Gon’s relief already on the ship back home, strapped to his seat, looking at the stars becoming long lines as they entered hyperspace. He never knew if he won or lost the game.

He was left feeling somewhat empty, completely off balance, the tiniest part of his brain wondering what would have happened if Mandalore’s civil war hadn’t ended and he was still Satine’s bodyguard. It took Obi-Wan a few weeks to finally feel like himself again, but he was okay. It was okay. He was young and impressionable and had been blinded by something vain and superficial, something silly, something not suitable for him to properly serve the Force.

Certainly not attachment, not love.

Maybe curiosity.

3\. philia

Anakin Skywalker was a promise to Master Qui-Gon.

He was a disturbance −an _anomaly_ − in the Force: an initiate that was too old assigned to a Master that was too young, too inexperienced; but too indebted to the last wish of a man not yet meant to die. A contradiction.

Nice enough, friendly; it wasn’t the kid’s fault. Anakin was obliging and efficient and very low maintenance, traces of a childhood of servitude; with an incredibly creative and problem-solving mind. Getting used to the Temple’s stark lifestyle wasn’t hard for him at all having had it much worse, being already stripped of any material belongings. He had a thing for vehicles, if Obi-Wan had to point out any flaw, but austerity came easy for him. That wasn’t a problem. But.

There’s a reason Jedi younglings are recruited at months old. A blank canvas can be preserved, can be expanded and shrunk and moulded; and with some work you can cover any inevitable small stain. That’s ideal. If you’re not careful and someone adds a brushstroke and you try to clean it and then paint over it there will always be a shadow, but it’s okay because it’s mostly unnoticeable. Your canvas is still mostly untainted. But then life passes and suddenly there are three of four more brushstrokes, faster each time, and then another one; and you try to fix it but the colours are mixing and there’s too much to cover and every bit that you manage to wipe out gets replaced by thick, dripping paint; and at some point it’s just impossible to get rid of all those emotions. All those fears and frustrations and regrets.

(All those attachments.)

It was overwhelming, at times. Anakin was extremely strong in the Force and so it leaked through his whole mind, bright and vibrant splashes of colour, and Obi-Wan could only hope his training was solid enough to reject any accidental droplet. When he heard him laugh, or cry, or scream in anger; he was the loudest. When he retreated to his inner self, when he refrained from saying something he shouldn’t, he was the loudest.

Anakin had been a promise to Master Qui-Gon, but he ended up becoming a promise to Obi-Wan himself. Time made him wiser and, therefore, better at concealing; but never quiet. If anything, he got louder.

It was a strange symbiosis. Anakin was proud, reckless, fearless (well, _he_ thought he was fearless, but he was actually just daring). For Obi-Wan, watching him grow meant preparing to be ready to let him go one day, either by naming him Jedi Knight or by attending a funeral in his honour. Obi-Wan would teach him about justice and logic, about history and past mistakes and finding inner peace and balance by letting the Force flow through him when meditating; and Anakin would ask him about marriage and family, about betrayal and revenge and feeling helpless trying to placate a whirlwind of emotions.

He would ask about her mother, but never verbally.

The answers he got were never the ones he was looking for, but he managed. They both managed. Turns out being a teacher is also learned, and you’re as much a student as your apprentice: Obi-Wan didn’t think he was asking, and yet he found way more answers than he thought he could deal with.

Anakin cared −he, he _felt_ − so deeply and so much that it scared Obi-Wan at times, emotions being the only thing he had never fully developed, much less understood. He had to fight against years of trained empathy based on hunger and poverty, against the support and affection of other slaves, of other children, against _a mother_ ; and he wasn’t sure he could win. He even cared for droids! The Council considered Anakin to be haughty, but the problem was precisely that he perceived anyone else’s problems as his own. He was unable to delegate. He could be cheeky but he had always felt closer to the helpless than the powerful; and it was, even if unwittingly, the Senate (and, at some extent, the Council itself) who were teaching him to be condescending.

Even at his age, when he was taller than Obi-Wan, he still laughed out loud. He still wept, he still screamed. It wasn’t that he hadn’t learned how to erase his emotions, it was that he couldn’t even keep them inside. Everything leaked.

And it was worrying for Obi-Wan, it made him anxious, because he knew his own canvas had a few covered brushstrokes. Anakin hated failing but it was Obi-Wan who was terrified of Anakin’s failure because he _knew_ him, because he knew what it would mean. He was the Chosen One, but he was just a kid. He was their (only, last) hope, but he was Obi-Wan’s (only, last) weakness. His padawan, his friend.

Sitting in their ship, coming back from a not-so-successful mediation mission, Anakin’s sulky frown spread through the whole cockpit. He didn’t talk, but he didn’t need to. It had been his plan but not his fault, and yet he was having trouble accepting that there are things you can’t control, especially when it’s about other people’s wills. Obi-Wan had assured him it had been a good strategy and there was nothing they could do now, and he would have to live with that. They had tried, and it hadn’t worked. That happened.

Anakin grunted, and before Obi-Wan knew it he found himself telling his padawan about a time when a mission had gone so bad Master Qui-Gon had lied and told the Council the plan had been his own, instead of Obi-Wan’s. He had felt so confident at the time, so sure; and he was mortified when Master Qui-Gon had apologized before the Council for something that wasn’t his fault.

He made a pause. Obi-Wan wasn’t used to share bits of his life unless he was filling a report, unless it was meant as an objective and aseptic recollection of a past event; but never as a confession or a form of psychoanalysis. There was something about Anakin that made him lower his guard, and even if the self-consciousness that came after was more about lack of habit than feeling judged, it still was too much exposure for his liking. Anakin looked at him with a mocking smile and Obi-Wan, instead of embarrassment, felt only relief. His padawan was so unbalanced that Obi-Wan tended to overcompensate, to extrapolate with him, to be the centre he didn’t seem to be able to find; and weirdly he was rewarded with a kind of freedom he hadn’t been able to find through the Force.

Clearing his throat Obi-Wan explained that, although he didn’t say anything at the Council, he did ask Master Qui-Gon why he hadn’t let him take responsibility; and he had replied that “the failure of the student is the failure of the teacher”. Anakin snorted at that. It had sounded unfair and a bit patronizing for Obi-Wan too, at that moment, so he hadn’t truly comprehended it; but it was nonetheless a good piece of wisdom and looking at it with some perspective had helped him appreciate it.

“This doesn’t qualify as a failure, I’m afraid, just a temporary setback. I must’ve taught you well.”

The air in the cockpit seemed less heavy as Anakin relaxed his shoulders, exhaling softly. It wasn’t that often that Obi-Wan played the part of the optimist, but negotiations were his forte and they usually needed a much subtler back-and-forth than Anakin could provide.

“Thank you, Master” Anakin said, genuinely grateful, but Obi-Wan knew he was the one who had learned the most. He dealt in reason and sense, in philosophy. His belief in the Council, interiorized since he was a toddler and reinforced now that he was part of it more than ever, often clashed with Anakin’s independent nature; with Obi-Wan caught in the middle. And while Anakin had a better connection with the Force −even more than Master Yoda−, he was pure instinct. He couldn’t be explained. He was potentially dangerous.

At the end of the day Obi-Wan knew Anakin was special, was different, was better; he knew his job was to watch him from a distance, to be a good example, to have the high ground. He wanted Anakin to succeed but he didn’t know if he could handle his own success, the true release of his power over the Force; and, maybe more importantly, he didn’t know if the Order could handle that. Obi-Wan treasured those moments when Anakin had shown improvement, every milestone he had achieved in his training; but they were locked inside, because the Jedi Code said he shouldn’t let them out. He didn’t know how. He was afraid of it. He needed to be ready to let him go.

Anakin had been given (inherited, you could say), and Obi-Wan hadn’t wanted him at first. Almost ten years after, he considered him _his_.

Fitted like two unexpected pieces of a puzzle they could guess their moods, predict each other’s reactions, make the other feel at home; they could communicate without words not because of the Force, but because of familiarity. The kid was a man now, the brushstroke was bold. It wasn’t really pride, but something bigger. Smaller. Different. It wasn’t contentment, or fulfilment, or satisfaction.

And not attachment, not love.

Maybe understanding.

4\. pragma

War is always worse than you expect. You may think you’re prepared (mentally, physically, economically), but you’re not. You may even think you have been preparing your whole life for the possibility, just in case, so it wouldn’t be as bad when it finally comes; but you haven’t.

The Order hadn’t, at least. Nor the Senate.

The building up is easy to track when you look back a couple of years and will probably seem absurdly obvious ten years later, but at that moment you always think you’ve got it under control.

You think you’re so good that the issue with the Trade Federation had been definitely settled almost thirteen years ago, not a chance it would become a bigger problem if not treated correctly; because the Republic is everlasting and they wouldn’t dare. You think you’re so good corruption, tyranny and crime aren’t really a problem; barely a couple of ancient clans and some scattered lowlife, as if that wasn’t enough to be concerned (who cares about the Hutts and the Pykes, about the smugglers and pirates, as long as they operate outside the Core worlds). You think you’re so good the Senate has all those outraged complaints from the neglected Outer Rim taken care of, you think you’re so good you act surprised when you hear there’s still slavery in the galaxy.

Pride-based apathy is a dangerous mantra. Obi-Wan disdained politics and politicians yet he respected the Republic as an institution as he respected the Order, and he recognized the Senate as the foundation of its well-being as he recognized the Council; but even he was starting to realize maybe the system had some deficiencies. In any case, they should be two separate entities. Would the Jedi have joined the war if the Separatists weren’t led by a Sith lord? Was the Order the Republic’s military force, or did they serve the people in its most abstract form, as the Code says?

What about Master Sifo-Dyas, and Kamino, and the clone army?

Ah, the clones.

The piece of the puzzle that somehow glued the whole thing together; the miraculous gift that came from nowhere at exactly the right time, almost too good to be true. Humans, but not exactly human. Organic, sentient, but manmade. Fighting for peace but made (fabricated, manufactured) for war, born soldiers with a lifespan too short to have a future. Millions of them but just one face, the same face, but with a million variations. They were the war, and its victims.

When Obi-Wan first learned about Commander Cody he wasn’t Commander, and he wasn’t Cody. A model categorized CC-2224 saluted him behind an inexpressive all-white helmet, hand firm and steady stance, like meat being sold to the highest bidder. The face underneath was yet unmarked; but Obi-Wan had come to appreciate even the nasty scar crossing his forehead and cheek as an external symbol of his individuality, much like the orange stripes in his uniform. It was a strange contrast, this need to be seen as separate. As original. Being a Jedi meant to tune down your uniqueness without losing yourself, adapting your clothes to the norm and harmonizing your soul with the Force (and, thus, with all the rest of the Jedi). Personality was necessary, but not necessarily encouraged.

The 212th should have been exactly like every other clone legion, but of course that was just an optical illusion. Working with Anakin’s 501st was proof enough that cloning wasn’t exact, that programming worked way better on droids if you wanted a mindless carcass; and that nature (or, rather, the most elemental manifestation of the Force) will always find a way.

Cody was− calm. Reliable. He worked well under pressure and had a stern approach when following orders, keeping the success of the mission as his top priority while balancing it with a casualty count as low as possible. He could joke, and smirk, and take the blame for his team. He didn’t really understand the Force, but he knew how to take advantage of it and wasn’t afraid of witnessing Obi-Wan using it. He had a sense of home not towards Coruscant or Kamino but towards his people, as did the rest of his brothers; a trait maybe inherited from their Mandalorian template, maybe developed as a way of coping with their own existence. Maybe both. A good soldier, a good Commander, a good friend. Obi-Wan was unsure about everything else but not about his men, not about Cody.

They never fought. Working with him was easy and convenient, a silent guarantee that the job would be done in time and without surprises, straight to the point. Orders were followed as long as it was possible, but when it wasn’t, Cody would think of a new plan to counteract any possible mishap and turn the tables. He quickly assimilated the stoic resignation of losing people in times of war, the need to bury that pain and focus on the present, the dangers of trying to save everyone: a Jedi’s healing trance will prevent scars from forming but on Cody they meant a life lived, a life used, and that was more than most of the clones would ever get.

He was a safe bet.

From soldier to soldier, but mostly from General to crew, entering the sickbay was never a pleasant experience; but Obi-Wan liked to check on the 212th after every big battle to keep a mental record of their numbers and general condition (a consequence of years having Anakin under his supervision, probably). Trying to do an inspection on the field usually led to inaccurate results and people were still high on adrenaline, for better or worse, so it could get messy; thus the aftermath tended to be more honest. The assault on Rendili hadn’t been as violent as they had expected, anyway, but a few injured clones were inevitable.

Cody was sitting on the stretcher, patiently listening to the medical droid stitching a long wound on his arm, near his elbow; while supervising the rest of the room. His helmet was carefully placed on a chair, along with his upper body protections, and when he saw Obi-Wan he made an attempt to stand up and salute that was quickly transformed into a simple and dutiful nod when he realized his wound was still being stitched.

“Commander” greeted Obi-Wan, with just the right amount of teasing, then made a hand gesture to keep him at ease. “How’s your arm?”

The medical droid showed him its precise handiwork, almost finished, and Cody exhaled something similar to a laugh. The plastoid of his armour had endured the explosion of a nearby starfighter, but some very sharp metal scraps had found their way through the soft undersuit.

“It’ll be as good as new in a couple of days, sir. It wasn’t very deep.”

“We’ve been lucky” Obi-Wan agreed, giving a quick glance to the rest of the room, “for once.”

There was a sticky sound when the medical droid applied a bacta patch to Cody’s now stitched wound, covering it completely; and then it waited a couple of seconds to make sure it wasn’t bleeding underneath before moving on to the next patient. It barely hurt, used as Cody was to physical pain, but he did try to be careful not to mess up the bandage while getting dressed again. Obi-Wan stood there, waiting quietly beside him, letting the gentle brushing of the clothes fill the cosy silence between them.

“Should I start the assessment of the weapons depot?” Cody asked, ready.

“No, I expect a quiet trip back; but I’ll need you with me for the holoconference before we reach Coruscant in case we need to change course” Obi-Wan said, between bossy and apologetic, and Cody simply nodded again. They talked mostly about work, where they both felt comfortable. “We’ll use this lucky strike while we can. Go to sleep, Cody, and tell your men to rest.”

“Will do, sir.”

And he always did. Cody obeyed because he believed in their cause but mostly because he believed in Obi-Wan, believed he was a good man and a good Jedi; and that kind of loyalty was something you couldn’t force on anyone even if you, well, used the Force: it can only be earned. In the same way Cody had an aura of efficiency that made Obi-Wan rest assured and know he wouldn’t walk alone into battle; know that if he ever misplaced his lightsabre (his weapon, his symbol, a part of his body), Cody will retrieve it for him. He could even use it, if it were up to Obi-Wan. It was that simple.

It was, at the end of the day, a cleared headache, a peaceful state of mind, an easy smile. His soul, balanced.

No, not attachment, not love.

Maybe trust.

5\. agape

Obi-Wan had seen fire, and the Fallen.

He had seen failure, and despair, and guilt; had seen death, and betrayal, and pain. He had _felt_ all those things. He had survived when much better Jedi hadn’t, had escaped when much wiser Masters hadn’t been in the right place at the right time; and although it seemed too cruel a lesson Obi-Wan was certain the Force was punishing them for their hubris.

There was no balance now. The Dark Side brings only destruction and misery and for the slightest moment Padmé’s passing felt like a mercy killing, back to when everything seemed hopeless; before Obi-Wan understood his role in what was about to come. Those were terrible times, lonely times, because suddenly he was terrified to be on his own: never before had his memories been so dreadful that he couldn’t bear them, couldn’t bury them under the heavy gravestone of logic and serenity. He had carelessly allowed some paint on his canvas when he still didn’t know how to deal with the dripping, so may the Force be with him. May the Force forgive him.

The full consequences were impossible to discern without time and perspective but Obi-Wan could already see they were unreachable, overwhelming; and he didn’t know what to do except admit responsibility for their past mistakes. The Order’s disappearance had been its own doing, and knowing that was part of the punishment. It wasn’t luck to avoid death, he realized; because you have to live through the aftermath, you have to face your loss. You need to find something to hold on to, the tiniest light cracking into the palpable darkness, so you will be able to make amends.

So there can be hope of restoring balance.

Padmé’s childbirth had been the antithesis of Vader’s naming, her last breath a plea for innocence, and somehow the biggest threat against the shadow that had condemned the galaxy. The twins were to be hidden and sheltered, separated for security, and never shown to the world; hoping that what remained of Anakin, if anything, would be too numb to notice their Force signature. A simple plan. It was done for safety reasons, mostly, but also for her; as an apology and sign of respect. They would have good families.

Planning for Tatooine Obi-Wan only had to deliver one of the babies to the Lars, and then leave. He wasn’t a father. Master Yoda couldn’t be a father, either, and that’s why he left; and yet there was a hunch. A dim premonition, maybe. Something told Obi-Wan he should stay, something about the child resonated with the Force, and that’s when he realized: he hadn’t been spared. He was a witness and a guardian, _this_ was his lesson ( _he_ had failed Anakin, after all).

He used to watch the horizon, wondering. Twin suns for twin babies, systems away, over the same desert that had raised a messiah and then killed his mother. Those sand dunes had produced a diamond in the rough to play with but then the Order had come to steal him away with promises of glory and grandeur, had polished him to their interests, and now his offspring was a mirage. The child got his name and his eyes, but her face. He wasn’t the Chosen One but its legacy, not a Jedi but their salvation: he was just a child, but he meant the future.

Luke grew up with caring parental figures, with friends, with joys and sorrows; with food on the table, with laughs and tears and many colours. He grew up happy and, most importantly, free.

They met a few times, but always from afar. Luke knew about Ben Kenobi, the eremite, the same way he knew about the Sand People and their strict territorial borders, or how he should never leave a speeder alone if he knew there were jawas nearby. Obi-Wan became a sort of quirky cautionary tale around the farms near Mos Eisley, harmless enough that no one would bother him; but reinforced on Luke by the Lars since they grew wary the old Jedi Master would take away their child. Obi-Wan knew better, now. He committed himself to his hut and simply watched over the child from a distance; he was a good example, always had the high ground, and was ready to let him go when the moment required it: he wasn’t sure when or how, but he would know when it happened.

Time passed quickly. Obi-Wan had stopped all contact with Bail Organa and couldn’t for his life reach Master Yoda, so he himself toned down his connection with the Force to a minimum, his life devoted to the last Skywalker.

At home Luke learned about tolerance, compassion and self-discipline but also about anger management and dealing with frustration the only way an eight-year-old can, by trial and error. He would throw a tantrum when he didn’t want to do his farm tasks and would cry and beg for new toys until he learned the best way to have free time was by helping uncle Owen finish his work, and that by doing it he would earn his precious miniature spaceships as a reward from aunt Beru. He also learned about showing affection and accepting the sadness that comes from loss, his small world expanding little by little to give space to such a big canvas; always looking at the sky as if it could mirror all the answers he didn’t know he represented.

The child loved spaceships, Obi-Wan realized with a bittersweet feeling, and was a very decent pilot. A very good one, even, for his age; not as reckless as Obi-Wan could have feared, and truly creative. He was sometimes angry but never spiteful, somewhat mischievous, and noble. He quickly learned who Jabba the Hutt was and what ‘bounty hunter’ meant, having them scattered around the planet; and promptly resolve to never become one of them, since they were the ‘bad guys’.

The day Luke turned twelve, Obi-Wan kneeled on the floor of his hut and placed Anakin’s lightsabre in front of him, as if paying his respects. His own lightsabre was hooked to his belt, as it always had been, and he couldn’t help remembering the day he had built it to become a padawan. He couldn’t help remembering the day Anakin had built his, and officially became his padawan. The child would never become a padawan, would never be a Jedi in the official sense; but maybe that was for the best: there was no Temple to go back to, no Order to turn to, and he already had a family. Something there was incompatible.

Obi-Wan placed his lightsabre next to Anakin’s, exhaling softly. A part of him felt like crying, not that he knew what to do with that, so he crossed his legs to calm himself through meditation. He tiptoed over flaring flames and troubled amber eyes, over the cry of two new-born babies and a heartbroken mother; and fell into the silence of the dead. The darkness cooled down and became warm, pleasant even, and it slowly opened like a pair of lazy eyes on a spring morning; twin suns shining brightly over the metallic handle of an orphaned lightsabre. A white silhouette switched it on hesitantly, the blade as blue as the eyes of its holder, and suddenly everything felt alright. Not fixed, but in place. In motion.

The vision blurred to reality in a peaceful dawning but Obi-Wan still felt the Force pulling him, the air heavier around Anakin’s weapon, his gaze fixed on it. It wouldn’t be inherited, but stolen. Forced.

Even if Luke became a Jedi, it wouldn’t be like his father before him. It wouldn’t be like any Jedi before him.

Change is always scary.

When Luke is seventeen, something in the galaxy is already transforming. Adjusting, somehow, to its next starting point. The Rebellion has stopped being a vague, idealistic dream for a bunch of outcasts to feel important and has established itself as a full front threat; while the Empire has, for the first time, started to look vulnerable. It’s barely noticeable from the ostracized Outer Rim, true, where crime and poverty still rule over its cities; but even here you hear rumours, whispers, excited gossip. Hope flourishes again.

From far away emerge strange disturbances in the Force that tell Obi-Wan something, or someone, is coming; traces of sacrifices and willpower, but none of them come from Luke yet. It doesn’t matter. It will soon be his time, and the Force is preparing for it.

It seems too big a burden for such young shoulders, sometimes, but all the doubts Obi-Wan felt about Anakin have turned into certainty about Luke; although he will admit there’s no logic or reason behind it. There isn’t a prophecy now, nothing to plant your feet on other than your own conviction, but it feels− right. It feels true. Luke Skywalker would fix what the Jedi had spoiled, would succeed where the Jedi had failed: he’s a vow to Obi-Wan. It’s absolution.

Not attachment, not love.

Maybe faith.

+1. mania

The Force doesn’t take sides: it’s a tool, and you decide how to use it. It doesn’t deal in absolutes. Jedi and Sith are not two opposite ends of a scale because there’s many, many different doctrines that study the Force across the galaxy, learning different aspects of it; and even if distinguishing between ‘light’ and ‘dark’ is straightforward enough, at the end of the day it doesn’t mean anything. They’re not closed categories. You can reject them, mix them, create your own; if they don’t satisfy you. You can pick a thread and pull from it, or embrace the whole spectrum. Wisdom, harmony, power. You decide what you seek.

Maul had been called Darth once, when he believed in the Dark Side as the Sith understand it, but now he walked alone. He had tried having a Master and using the Force to serve him, had tried to find meaning in someone else’s wishes; and for some time he felt powerful enough to ignore the emptiness inside. Then came Naboo.

He lost his life, his mind, and his legs; and was replaced. Forgotten.

Master Qui-Gon’s assassination marked many lives, but the most unexpected was probably Maul’s. After his duel with Obi-Wan, after the pious padawan pushed the Jedi Code aside to embrace his anger and kill his enemy in cold blood, there was just one thing keeping Maul in this world. Just one word.

Kenobi.

Later found by a long-lost brother and remade loyal to Mother on Dathomir, Maul still heard the name in dreams. In nightmares. They say any science unknown to you will look like magic, and they’re called Witches for a reason: his Nightsisters had given him his nerve back, had made him functional again; and he was more than ready to use that newfound power to achieve his own desires. He took an apprentice, feeling wise enough to be the one in charge this time; he confronted his old superiors, mocked his enemies, and subdued a whole planet. But Kenobi was alive, so he wasn’t truly satisfied.

They met many times. Obi-Wan was a Master then, older and calmer, and overall way more infuriating. He treated Maul with the fabricated respect you give to those you think are dangerous but honourless, he fought him with technique and focus, but it didn’t feel personal. Even when Maul won he lost, his own hostility never affecting Kenobi’s affairs.

Could Obi-Wan had forgotten it had been Maul who took his Master away from him? Was this really the Jedi way, to detach themselves from everything and everyone to the point of not yearning for revenge? Did he simply− not cared? That was unfathomable to a Sith, assuming Maul still considered himself one; but to be honest it was unfathomable to any Dark Side user, students as they are of the primordial power that comes from raw emotion. He needed Obi-Wan to look at him with the same aversion, the same _hatred_ , that Maul felt when he looked at him. He had to strike, and there was only one way to remind Kenobi how misery felt.

And so Maul killed Satine. It was good business, all in all, to get rid of the ex-Duchess to take control of Mandalore; so watching Kenobi mourn her loss with her still warm in his arms was just a bonus. The throne had never felt so appropriate, so high, and yet he would not look at him.

Kenobi would not look up from his pathetic beggar’s stance, too focused on tenderly whispering words of comfort to a corpse; instead of turning to him with fire in his eyes and just _attack_. Maul wanted him to lose control, to give in in despair, to give him something to fill the emptiness with; and yet he wouldn’t. Kenobi only wept dry tears and cradled the dead weight, so at least Maul had managed to break something, but not enough. Never enough. He won’t kill him, then. Not now. The loss would make Kenobi rotten in his own repentance, would let the sorrow drown him, until there wouldn’t be any more of him. That would satisfy Maul.

But it didn’t happen, so he retreated for a while.

He needed something bigger, something that would crush Kenobi so bad he would lose all sanity the same way Maul had transformed into a feral beast in the past; but there were too many variables. For a time he thought he could let it go. He was in a position where his power wasn’t only spiritual but also political (and even economical, if he would have cared about that), so that should suffice. And he did rule, and smuggled, and killed with his bare hands; but he found all those materialistic pleasures kind of petty. Unworthy of him, somehow. Then he started hearing whispers in the Force.

They were vague visions, at first, nothing that made sense; but Maul knew something big was coming. The fog was volatile, giving him scattered information that was never complete, but when it started solidifying into a big dark cloud upon the horizon; it seemed too good to be true.

The whole world in shadows, and Maul wouldn’t have to do anything. Misfortune would fall upon not only Kenobi, but the entire Jedi Order, as the wicked twist of an ancient prophecy: Kenobi’s padawan (his kid, his companion, his _pride_ ) would be their downfall. Young Skywalker, angry and resentful, would accept the same hand Maul had served all those years ago; and as he did, would find only suffering. He will bring destruction not only to himself but everyone around him, every living thing in the galaxy, and yet it would be harder on Kenobi than anyone else.

And the best thing was that it wouldn’t only be Skywalker who turned his back on him, but also the cannon fodder that were those clones. All Kenobi’s faithful army, ready to die for him, would persecute him; dutiful soldiers surrendering their weak free will to murder the hand that feeds them. How delightfully ironic! Maul had always been able to appreciate those small nuances. The only problem was that Maul wouldn’t be the one to kill him, but he valued his bestowed life too much to deny himself the pleasure of knowing he had finally won. That Kenobi had died alone, and miserable, and betrayed.

That is, if he had actually died.

All that time since the fall of the Republic Maul remained content, hoarding anything that reminded him of his victories while making a name of himself in the underworld, secretly lamenting the loss of his most beloved adversary. His most precious possession was Duchess Satine’s portrait, stolen from her (his) throne room, as a reminder of the only time Maul had actually defeated Obi-Wan with his own hands; that is, the only way that matters. His sweetest moment.

But something was missing, still. He asked −he _begged_ − the Force, he tried to force himself into scriptures as old as galaxy itself, until he could finally access all the wisdom inside the holocrons. He saw it then, so little and yet so much more than he could understand, showing him one face clear as water: Kenobi was alive.

Twin suns for linked souls, bound across time and space, and when Maul finally finds him Obi-Wan is old and grey; but gentle. Unperturbed. Maul lets his own frustration mock and insult him, for why should he bear a hollow chest while Kenobi leads a gracious life? Why would Kenobi pity him, _him_ , that had ruled a kingdom and risen above the greatest warriors? Why wasn’t he a wretched and pathetic mess, pitifully longing for what had been, without any hope for the future?

Ah. A flicker of fear in the Force, for Kenobi was protecting something. Someone.

A kid.

Maul is not the first one to ignite his lightsabre, ready to kill, but he’s the one who starts the fight. When Obi-Wan takes the stance of his late Master to give the final blow, breaking his lightsabre in half and opening a rift in his chest, Maul can only feel the burn. The cold comes later.

Carefully holding him in his arms Obi-Wan doesn’t wept or tries to sooth his pain with soft words, so maybe Maul has lost again. With his consciousness crossing the path between life and death Maul glimpses a light in the future, and suddenly he understands. When he uses his last strength to say the words out loud, to let his voice be lost in the desert; it feels like a prayer.

“He will avenge us.”

The only constant in his life had been Obi-Wan Kenobi. He had given Maul a goal, an objective, a lighthouse; and at his last moments he gave him mercy. He closed his eyes, forgivingly, watching over a face that had never looked so placid: there was no hatred, no anger, no despair.

Not regret, not bitterness.

Maybe, finally, peace.


End file.
